June 18, 2026. Somewhere Over New England

The broad-shouldered man sitting next to me leans over, showing me a photo of his three daughters. The oldest is probably my age. 

I smile, delighted that he’s on his way home to see them. 

He’s from Slovakia, he told me. He lives in Chicago now, apart from his ex-wife and his three girls, who still live in his home city. He’s on his way to Greece, where he’ll meet up with his daughters for a week of dad-time. 

He’s practically glowing, all the way up to the top of his balding head. 

He tells me it’s his dream to own a home in Chicago—a place where his middle daughter, Marie, can live when she comes to stay next summer—but as a taxi driver, that dream hasn’t become a reality yet. 

In Slovakia, he was a carpenter. Here, there’s not a market for hand-made, quality things. At least not one he can compete with. 

We talk until our coffee is gone, and we’re near New York. From there, he goes on to Greece and I to India. We wish each other well, and I go back to my book. 

June 20, 2026. Somewhere Between Delhi and Hyderabad 

The girl in the window seat has to be roughly my age, with a long, straight ponytail tinged henna-red. We exchange shy smiles when I sit next to her, but for the most part, we leave each other be. 

She’s watching a Bollywood drama, and over the next hour I peak at it every so often. 

Halfway through the flight, without looking at me, she offers me her bag of Taquitos. 

I take one and say, “My little brothers love these. They’re the best.”

She smiles, “They are! The best flavor too.” 

She goes back to her drama, I to my book. A few minutes later, she leans the bag my way again. 

Then again. 

We both giggle. 

She has a wide, open smile. She’s working as a quality engineer in Hyderabad, she tells me. She lives by herself. 

From what I know of India, that’s quite unusual. I ask her if she’s lonely. 

She nods emphatically. 

“I hate it. I miss my family.” 

She offers me another taquito. 

When the bag is gone, I offer her hand sanitizer. As she squirts it into her small palms, she asks about my family. 

I tell her about my husband, and how I don’t see my family as often as I’d like.

She nods. She knows that feeling. 

We walk off the plane together, talking about the sights in Hyderabad and the food she recommends. We wish the other well. Then wave goodbye. 

November 16, 2025. Somewhere Over the Atlantic

The greying woman next to me drops her complimentary cubes of Swiss cheese on the floor. She huffs at herself, creakily bending to pick them up and stuff them back in their plastic cup. She doesn’t eat them. 

I sit for a moment, looking at my cup of cheese. 

Then I lean over, putting the cup in her periphery. 

“Would you like some of mine? I won’t eat them all.” 

The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepen as she smiles. It’s a kind smile—reminds me of one of my grandmas. 

We share the cheese evenly. 

As lunch is served, several hours later, we get to know each other. She’s Czech, but she’s lived in Chicago for the better part of 30 years—much longer than I’ve lived in the US. I think her name was Sophia. 

We giggle as we share the things on our plates that we don’t want, and at the end, we “cheers” our Swiss chocolate. 

When the plane lands, we walk together in comfortable silence toward the baggage area. I have a connection. Her son is waiting to pick her up at Arrivals. 

Suddenly, Sophia leans in and hugs me. She even smells cozy. 

“I wish you the best, sweet girl,” she says. 

Kate Wilmot

Kate Wilmot (’24) is a Grand Rapids resident who has found herself in the in-betweens of undergrad and post-grad life. She is an avid children’s fiction reader and a globally-minded cook who will feed anyone that walks in her door. You can find her losing to her husband in pickleball, weight lifting, or getting coffee with her mom.